A 24-Pack of Band-Aids
by ShadowedSoulSpirit
Summary: The experiences of an individual define what they will become, like definitions defining a certain object to explain the otherwise unexplainable. This is the concept of Aizawa's experiences that developed him into the beloved teacher of 1-A—and it all began as a teenager. Warnings Inside.
1. Safe

**24-Pack of Band-Aids**

* * *

 **A Boku no Hero Academia oneshot.**

 **Summary: The experiences of an individual define what they will become, like definitions defining a certain object to explain the otherwise unexplainable. This is the concept of Aizawa's experiences that developed him into the beloved teacher of 1-A—and it all began as a teenager.**

 **Warning: Warning for language and a small hint towards romantic relations.**

* * *

Abuse

 _verb_

əˈbyo͞oz/

treat (a person or an animal) with cruelty or violence, especially regularly or repeatedly.

"riders who abuse their horses should be prosecuted"

 _Synonyms:_ mistreat, harm, damage.

Aizawa Shouta grazed over each individual letter, the stench of a twenty-year-old dictionary not deterring him like it was Hizashi. His friend had already slammed the book shut and pushed it away with a grimace, wiping his dust-coated fingers on his pants.

"Do we have to write English definitions this way?" He whined.

"It's what the teacher said."

"But Shoutaaaa."

Aizawa slowly turned to his friend, who resorted to pouting and laying his head on his desk to cover his blank paper. "What?"

Hizashi protested, "This is seriously no way to learn English!"

"Why are you complaining to me about it." Aizawa gave a small shrug and looked back at the yellowed-pages, his equally blank assignment sitting beneath his elbow. Hizashi dramatically huffed and stretched his arms out, bumping the classmate in front of him.

"Because you care, Shouta," Aizawa glanced at him blankly, and he quickly added, "Most of the time."

When the English teacher suddenly appeared at Hizashi's desk, arms menacingly crossed over his chest, his friend let out nothing short of a shriek followed by profuse apologies that tangled together and made absolutely no sense. The teacher reprimanded Hizashi for "disrupting the class", and Aizawa picked up his pencil and wrote the first definition his eyes landed on. But in his peripheral, he could still see the word, black stenciled font stretched to fill the large line.

 _Abuse._

* * *

They always parted ways outside the train station. It was an unspoken rule between Hizashi and Aizawa that they would say their goodbyes at the top step beneath the iron sign and move onto their respective houses. Of course, Hizashi wasn't much for rules and tried to follow him home once or twice and got his ass kicked as a repercussion. Aizawa had grumblingly followed the blond to his house many times at his invitation, but the invitation was never returned.

This particular day was dreary, the clouds throbbing with rain and clotting the sky in grey. They were surprised to emerge from the train station without precipitation; and per custom, Hizashi waved goodbye to his friend, who just simply raised his hand, turned on his heels and started walking.

But something was different today. Not something his friend could place, of course, but enough that made him worry.

"Hey, Shouta!" He shouted, just skirting the use of his quirk. Shouta slowed to a stroll and turned his head towards him. "Want to come to my house today?"

His black-haired friend stopped. People weaved in between them, departing from the train station. Hizashi took a step forward to clear the gap, but Shouta shook his head and continued forward, tossing a scrap back to his friend that he could barely hear.

"Not today. I have too much homework."

The blond watched his friend as he slipped through the crowd and crossed the street, turning left beyond a building and disappearing behind it. He ached to run after him, to tell him they would work at homework at his house this time. He would promise profusely, and beg, because he knew Shouta couldn't stand it when he did. He stared at the corner for a few more moments, hoping he would reappear; and when he didn't, he readjusted his backpack on his shoulder and walked down the familiar path to his house, alone, his heart aching with curiosity.

Hopefully, his feeling was just wrong.

* * *

Shouta didn't show up for class the next day.

When Hizashi arrived at school at their regular meeting time, he couldn't find the clump of black hair as he combed the crowd; and when he departed from the congregation of students into the reclusion of plants and trees on the front lawn, he still couldn't locate his friend.

The front doors were opened, and students filtered inside, Hizashi stopping every so often to look behind him, hoping he just missed him, hoping he just blended into the shadows and hid from him as a joke.

Instead of heading for his locker, he went straight to Shouta's. The metal felt frozen beneath his fingertips. Clean white school shoes. No mud-stained boots. He hesitantly closed the door, pressing his palm to the surface like he could generate enough of a connection with Shouta to figure out where he was, or better yet, summon him—but no matter how much he thought about it, he couldn't come up with a logical conclusion as to why he _wasn't_ there. Shouta didn't get sick. Doctor appointments were too troublesome to deal with. If Hizashi convinced him to go, it was always when they were on break so he could drag him there and make sure he didn't leave if they didn't call his name on time.

Something was wrong—and he had to swallow that as he numbly walked to class and took his seat, waiting nervously for homeroom to begin.

Roll call was always first—as was Aizawa Shouta's name. Hizashi flinched when it went unanswered, glancing every so often at the unoccupied desk at his side. This wouldn't stand. He would march blindly in the direction he always saw his best friend take and shout into the streets until he found him. He just had to get through class first.

He fixated his attention on the clock. Time seemed to tick on forever.

* * *

Hizashi was trying to concentrate on the ridiculous concept of imaginary numbers—who in their right mind would invent that—when Shouta materialized out of the blue. He had been hunched over his textbook, trying _not_ to think about his best friend but always thinking about his best friend as he scribbled failed after failed attempt at solving the problem on the notebook paper. He jumped nearly every time the door opened, but now he was numb to the click of the lock until a presence passed his desk and slipped into the one next to his own.

His head shot up, and there he was, the illusive Shouta—looking as exhausted as he always did, slipping homework from his bag to sit on his desk. Hizashi wanted to jump up and start shouting, but one look from the teacher made him duck his head and pretend to stare at his work.

Shouta didn't say anything. He didn't even act like anything happened. He just went straight into working and solving the problems Hizashi struggled with without hesitation, like he hadn't been _missing_ for a few hours.

Hizashi would set the record straight. He just had to wait 30 minutes, until the class was over, and he could get an answer during the break.

But the thirty minutes stretched on and on and on. Shouta finished his work. Hizashi was still stuck on the second problem.

* * *

"Where were you?" He blurted out the breath after the bell ring. Aizawa produced a small shrug as he stuffed his notes back into his bag. Hizashi would not accept it. "Shouta, you were missing for _hours._ "

His friend rolled his eyes and tucked his bag beneath his arm. "I overslept Hizashi."

He eyed his friend suspiciously, crossing his arms. It sounded like a bullshit response if he ever heard one, but he knew Shouta wouldn't cough up the answers he wanted so easily if he had something to hide. He huffed and snatched his bag from his arms, running to the front of the classroom.

"See you at lunch Shouta!" He yelled before ducking out of the classroom.

Aizawa shook his head and stepped towards Hizashi's desk where his bag remained, slipping the strap over his shoulder. He submitted the papers into their proper slot and slowly followed the blond he called his friend.

"Idiot…" he mumbled through a soft smile. "You forgot your bag."

* * *

When Hizashi was frustrated, he was—well, aggressive. Not aggressive to other people per se, but the amount of passive-aggressive behaviors exploded. Aizawa couldn't read his mind, but he could tell when he had something on it that bothered him, especially when he fished for ramen noodles like an executioner trying to lop off a head every time he snapped his chopsticks. Even his slurps were aggressive. Aizawa stared at him over his untouched ramen as his friend heaved up his bowl and sucked the contents dry, slamming the plastic back on the tray.

"Did you even taste it?" He asked.

Hizashi pouted, "Of course I did! It tasted good!"

Despite the unnerving crowd of a lunchroom, the pair had managed to secure their seclusive spot in a corner far from the extreme extroverts of the school. Aizawa had always appreciated it, but now, something thick was disturbing the air, and he didn't like it.

"What's the matter with you."

Hizashi gave a funny look, and Aizawa sighed, sloshing his noodles around in the broth boredly.

"You're upset. Why."

"I'm not upset!" His friend stood up, snatching his tray at his ascent. "What makes you think I'm upset!"

When Aizawa quirked an eyebrow, he suddenly announced "I'm going to get more food!" before he marched away, leaving his dark-haired friend alone.

Aizawa folded his chopsticks on top of his bowl. People were so confusing, and he was reminded why he often didn't like them as he stared at his poor reflection in the soft light of the ramen liquid.

He wondered if Hizashi, like the rest of the world, just stopped liking him altogether. He supposed it was a just the fault of his genetics.

* * *

They didn't talk like they normally did on the train ride home. Hizashi didn't wave at him when they reached the top step—he immediately diverged for his home, and this time it was Aizawa watching his back as he vanished into a crowd of post-work traffic.

He swallowed a sigh. He could only rationalize that this was probably the last time they would do this together, making him even more apprehensive of what laid beyond the streets.

But he couldn't stand on the sidewalk forever. He slowly wound the strap of his bag around his fingers, letting the flare of red tips and the small pain remind him that he wasn't weak. So slowly, he stepped forward on his own path, in his own direction, wishing for once that he wasn't alone.

* * *

The Aizawa's had always lived in tiny, shabby apartment complexes. This one, the sixth or so in a line of shitty living spaces was no different for the criteria. There were two building, each one built with a dirty mustard yellow brick and crawling with filth twenty+ plus years of neglect. Only one side of each building had ledges with iron bars fixated horizontally as a fence for each complex. Aizawa lived in the west building, with a tree that curled close to their second-floor ledge.

Rationality said what he always did was wrong. That it would be simpler to request a key and enter through the front door. But self-preservation screamed in horror. He wouldn't escape through the front door unscathed.

He secured his backpack to himself and walked over to the graffiti-stained tree, its limbs drooping the more Aizawa grew and gained weight.

He knew every foothold. He planted his foot onto the thickest root and pushed up, grabbing onto a branch above his head. From there, he worked his way around the tree, using other limbs like a circular staircase until he got to his limb, the sturdiest one that jutted out close to his ledge. He slowly shuffled his way down the branch. He was 15 feet or so off the ground, with a three feet gap between the weakest part and the ledge.

And he jumped.

He landed easily on the other side of iron bars, crouching when he hit the ground so the impact traveled through his entire body. He glanced back at the tree, as it shivered and wobbled lightly. It was getting harder for it to survive his jumps, and surely, one day, it would snap.

He slipped his fingers into the sliding door and cracked it open, enough where he could slide in. Anything anymore than a foot would cause the glass to start scratching against the casing. And even though the sliding door only led to his room, he was always conscious of it. He quietly sealed the door behind him.

The only light came from the windows on the door, but it didn't filter out much of the darkness with the angle of the tree blocking the sun. He plops down on his bed, sitting his bag aside and kicking his shoes off. He checked his phone, his thumb hovering over his conversation from Hizashi. No new messages.

He truly was alone.

* * *

Aizawa woke, curled up in his bed and clutching his phone, to screaming.

It jolted him awake, and he was on his feet before his brain could process it, running to the door and slotting his shoulder under the space beneath the handle. He wished he had time to slide the bed into his place or even perch a chair against it—but then the handle started to wiggle, and he felt his socked feet give way to the angry man on the other side.

"Shouta!" _He_ screamed, his voice thick and drunken as he rammed into the door again. It jerked open, some of the hallway light filtering in before the door snapped shut again. "Let me in you bastard!"

Aizawa shut his eyes, honing in on his fast breaths and the wood twitching beneath his shoulder. It would pass, it always would, when someone lost—whether that was the need for alcohol or the door.

This time, it was the latter.

The teenager braced himself hard against the surface and waited, waited for the next impact, waiting for the next crash so he could push back against it. But it didn't come. He didn't scream again, didn't so much as make a noise. And when Aizawa shifted his weight to get a better traction, the drunken man smashed his shoulder so hard into the door that he heard the wood splinter, and he had dive out of its vicious path to avoid being smashed into the wall with it. But perhaps it was a more merciful fate—because before he got to his feet again, the drunken man grabbed him by an ankle and dragged him out into the hall, ripping the partially destroyed door closed behind them.

* * *

Hizashi was waiting for him outside U.A. the next day, but this time he could not hide the truth. He found him casually leaning against a tree, scrolling through his phone. They were in the regular phase of "he's done pouting and is ready to apologize for his behavior" until the blond glanced up from the LED screen and caught one look at his face. He dropped his phone in shock.

"Shouta! What happened!" He shouted, a little too loudly, and it made Aizawa flinch. He quickly dropped his voice down a few octaves. "Your face is all bruised…"

His _entire_ face wasn't bruised, he had checked. One side of his face was swollen from a black eye, both cheekbones accompanied by a swath of green and yellow discoloration. Luckily, his uniform covered the neck bruises and anything else that would cause his blond friend concern. He gave a small shrug.

"I got into a fight."

Hizashi's eyebrows shot up. "But why Shouta. That's unlike you."

Their eyes meet, Hizashi's veiled by his tinted sunglasses and Aizawa's through the bruises of abuse. He said, candidly, "Someone was trying to hurt me. So, I fought back."

His friend reached out to grab his hand, reconsidered and grabbed the end of his sleeve instead. The half-truth hung thickly in the air between them.

"Come on…" He spoke quietly, too softly for it to be coming from Hizashi, "Let's get the nurse to take a look at it…"

* * *

The only thing that could be prescribed to him was ibuprofen and a note to get him out of gym. It took all but five minutes before he was dismissed from the nurse's office and back into the custody of his friend, who he found pacing nervously in the hall. He came to an abrupt stop when he noticed Shouta and blossomed into a grin, although they both knew it was all for show.

"So how was it?" He asked.

"Not much she could do. But I am getting out of gym for today."

His friend bobbed his head, but he wondered if he was actually listening. He looked like he was in another world, trapped behind the glass of his thoughts that reflected in the yellow tint of his sunglasses. Aizawa flashed a glance at the clock down the hall.

"We should get to class," he said.

Hizashi blinked. Now _that_ caught his attention.

"Wait—why?"

Aizawa sighed, "Because. Today is a school day."

"But you can't go to class like that!" He waved and pointed at his own face to highlight his words.

"My face is bruised Hizashi. My brain works just fine."

He nabbed him by his shoulders, and Aizawa bit his bottom lip hard to keep from lashing out in panic. His friend shook him twice before resting his fingers at the top of his shoulders, inches away from more bruises he knew would send him back to the nurse's office.

"Let's skip first period," he said, assertively.

His black-haired friend raised an eyebrow. "Are you serious?"

Hizashi nodded, lowering his hands. "Yeah. I'm serious. Let's just go sit outside or something."

Rationality spoke reason into his ears. Why skip class when he was there, it was a perfect waste of time and he only would have to make it up later. But his cheekbones throbbed, and he felt a tiny heartbeat behind his eye that made the pain intensify, and he couldn't give a _damn_ what rationality said at that moment.

"Okay."  
Hizashi cheered, this time grabbing him by his hand and running him down the hall so fast he nearly tripped on his feet. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. But his friend was happy. That was good enough for now.

He dragged him out to their favorite tree on campus, thick enough at the base that they could sit side by side and risk no exposure from the windows facing their direction. Hizashi let him sit down on his own before plopping down beside him, digging his phone out from his pocket. He was babbling on about music and artists and bands Aizawa couldn't keep up with, but he nodded his head and pretended to listen about as he shrugged off his jacket and worked on loosening his tie.

It was Hizashi's way of trying to make him feel better, by getting his mind off it; and when his friend produced one white left earbud to him, he took it wordlessly and slotted it into his ear. He stretched out his legs and leaned against the bark of the tree and ran his fingers through grass. It felt like jam, sticky with dew, and he rubbed his fingers to get rid of the feeling.

He always questioned Hizashi's taste in music—it was usually either too loud, too fast, or too complicated for him to appreciate—but this was different. He flashed his friend a look, and he grinned sheepishly, thumbing through his long list of songs on his phone.

"I decided to change up my music a little," he explained, and Aizawa watched names of music he's never even heard of let alone listened to blaze by on the screen before he tapped on one song, clicking the screen off before he could read it. "Just relax and enjoy, my listener."

The blond chuckled lightly and pressed his back to the tree so their shoulders touched, and Aizawa felt like he could fall asleep in the cradling arms of nature.

A guitar began to strum. He felt his eyelids grow heavy.

And then Hizashi started to sing.

"I remember tears streaming down your face when I said I'll never let you go…" He softly emulated, so softly Aizawa thought he might be speaking in his ear. "When all those shadows almost killed your light…"

Shadows. He had a lot of shadows, many of which he wished would never give him attention. He hated attention—it always became negative or resulted in something negative happening to him, whether it was a sound that drew the beast to his room or blunt word or lack thereof that damaged a friendship. But when he slowly leaned into his best friend shoulder, making him pause and forget the next line ( _I remembered you said don't leave me here alone)_ , he realized not all attention was bad, if it was found in the right place.

"But all that's dead and gone and passed tonight."

Hizashi's attention was probably the only one he'd ever be comfortable with.

"Just close your eyes, the sun is going down…"

He did close his eyes before he realized it was just a song, before he realized the words weren't real. But his best friend always spoke to him through the lyrics.

"You'll be alright, no one can hurt you now…"

He shifted forward, his cheekbone brushing against Hizashi's shoulder with a small throb as the blond slipped an arm around his back and looped around his waist. It was more comfortable and warm—and Aizawa felt himself sinking away before he could hear the rest of the song, hearing the thrum of Hizashi's voice and the pounding of his heart instead.

"Come morning light, you and I'll be safe and sound…"

* * *

Aizawa woke up in the afternoon, the sun bowing respectfully beneath the trees of the horizon so only its dwindling rays phased over the treetops. He sat up slowly, the familiar ache drawing his limbs taunt against his body, and the hand he realized was on his waist fell away. He glanced at Hizashi, who was watching him, something unsaid brewing behind those eyes. Aizawa was almost afraid to know what it was, the pessimism of expecting everything to be bad once again washing over his attitude that at least, for a brief sleep, had been carried away.

"What time is it…" he mumbled softly, running a palm over his eyes, trying not to bump too hard against the bruises.

"It's around 6:30."

He dropped his hands to his lap. "You let me sleep through all our classes."

Hizashi scratched the back of his head. "Yeah. You looked so tired… and normally you don't take naps this long." It's true, as much as he hated to admit. "So I thought... 'Yeah, he really needs sleep', so I let you sleep for as long as you like."

He smiled softly at him and slowly rose to his feet, jutting a hand out to Aizawa, who took it and braced himself to be jerked onto his feet. He was reminded again of this boy, as loud and obnoxious as he always was, who came into his life and showed him that not all attention was bad when it was directed towards him—and with that thought in mind, he bent towards him and wrapped his arms around his torso, catching his friend off guard and in a full-on blush, accompanied by stuttering.

"S-shouta?" Hizashi asked suddenly, his arms raised just above him like he had turned into an octopus, and he didn't know what to do about it. Aizawa tilted his head to look up at him, before he slowly released him, stepping back a pace. Hizashi still kept his arms raised stupidly, and his blush was starting to bleed to his ears.

"What was that for?"

"To raise your blood pressure."

"Eh? Why!"

"Because it's funny."

Finally realizing he had control of his limps, he lowered them and pushed his black-haired friend playfully. "Shouta! That's not funny!"

Aizawa hid a small smile as he picked up his jacket from the ground, brushing off the grass and dirt it collected.

"Come on Hizashi. Let's go home," he said and slipped the uniform back on. He didn't necessarily know what he meant by home, but it was out there somewhere, beyond the walk from the train station. He turned on his heel and took two steps forward, stopping only when Hizashi snatched his hand.

He stared at the ground, still blushing from ear to ear, but he said firmly, "Come home with me tonight, Shouta."

The familiar disagreement. "I have homework to do."

Hizashi jerked his head up, his sunglasses sliding down the bridge of his nose so Aizawa could see the firm, green torrent building in his eyes.

"I promise," He asserted. "We'll do our homework together. Just, please. Come home with me tonight."

In his ears, Aizawa heard the faint echo of a guitar. He shook his head but stared back into his relenting eyes, the way his mouth screwed into a firm frown and how his eyebrows bunched together when he was truly serious. One day wouldn't kill him.

"Fine."

If only that was truly a metaphor, and not a reality, for Aizawa Shouta.

* * *

Night came, and Aizawa could not sleep. Hizashi clocked out almost as soon as his head hit the pillow, and his black-haired friend had sunk beneath the covers on the pull-out futon for show; but now, he emerged frustratedly from them, stretching out his bare feet so they brushed against the cool wood floors.

Not one piece of wall was sacred from Hizashi's hands—even with the small filaments of light escaping through the crack of the curtains, he could see with the cool blue air the band posters plastered corner to corner on the walls, their bright colors dulled by the thick tangent of shadows.

Normally, Aizawa didn't mind spending the night at Hizashi's. The blond had insisted on it since his foot passed the entryway. After the eleventh "please Shouta", he finally resigned and agreed to it. Something was changing between the two of them, something that had been forming throughout the week, and he could feel a thread wrapping tightly around his heart. It was simple. He was scared. And when he balled his cold fingers into fists, he knew he would not, _could not,_ sleep. Aizawa was never a night owl by nature, but years of conditioning trained his body to accept that night was the time to stay awake.

He kicked off the blanket and sighed, flopping back on the thin mattress. There wasn't much he could do, with Hizashi sleeping in the room. Usually, he resorted to reading or studying to pass the time, but now with neither of those options viable, his mind began to turn.

He thought back to English class, to the definition that waltz across his vision and remained, ever constant, ever-present as he went throughout his daily life to remind him at the least eventful times that life was just not as crystal coated as many wished it to be.

Abuse

 _verb_

əˈbyo͞oz/

treat (a person or an animal) with cruelty or violence, especially regularly or repeatedly.

"riders who abuse their horses should be prosecuted"

 _Synonyms:_ mistreat, harm, damage.

It wasn't like Aizawa wouldn't call himself abused; he just wouldn't acknowledge the fact that the definition unnerving him was a perfect reflection of his life. Instead, he narrowed his mind to only think of his friend and the way things have changed between them since then.

He was scared, yes—the sinking feeling of his heart in a boat full of holes told him he was very afraid—but he was most afraid of losing the only friend he had ever made, to be again reclaimed by a fellow definition, loneliness.

But that's where they were heading. And it was thanks to the abuse.

"Shouta…?"

The sound of Hizashi's voice almost startled him. He didn't realize he had even stopped snoring, let alone rolled over to look over the side of the bed at him. Aizawa hummed in response, keeping his eyes on a lone guitar player hanging above their heads. Hizashi stretched one arm above his eyes before he scratched at his limp hair.

"Can't sleep...?" he asked, and Aizawa wanted to respond dryly _what do you think._ But he decided to take pity on his blond friend, who, for whatever reason, could not stand being awake after the sun went down.

"No," he replied.

His friend yawned and rolled onto his back, disappearing from his view, except for the limp hand he tossed over the side of the covers.

"The futon uncomfortable...?"

"The futon is fine. Go to sleep."

Hizashi tossed and turned a few times, nearly throwing his blanket on top of Aizawa below him, before he finally mumbled. "Come sleep in the bed..."

Aizawa raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"More comfortable."

He pinched the bridge of his nose. At least he could say his friend tried.

"My comfort level isn't what is affecting me, Hizashi. I just can't sleep," he said, dropping his gaze from the poster back towards the bed when his friend materialized back into view, rubbing his eyes and yawning again.

"Shoutaaaa…" Hizashi whined softly, repeatedly, until Aizawa sighed loudly and stood up. He pinched his friend after he caught sight of his sheepish grin, and he whined again as Aizawa climbed into the bed.

It felt no different than the futon; it actually made him a little more uncomfortable being completely aware of the individual sleeping next to him. Hizashi sensed it, whether from his silence or the fact that he scooted dangerously close to the edge because he sat up and wadded his blanket into his arms.

"What are you doing," Aizawa asked bluntly when his friend reached blindly over the side of the bed and produced his abandoned blanket.

"Got an idea…" He mumbled and smoothed out one of the blankets in the valley Aizawa made between them. Hizashi pointed to him and then the blanket. "Roll over."

His black-haired friend gave him a look before he slipped into the middle of the blanket. Hizashi pulled up the edges before placing the second blanket on top of that, tucking the edges beneath his body so he was enveloped in a soft cocoon that smelled like watermelon, a strange hallmark he had come to associate solely with his friend.

The blond flopped back onto the pillows, and within seconds, became dead to the world again, one finger still curled around a corner of the blanket. Aizawa stared up at the poster, of the lone player cradling his guitar to his chest, and before he could realize it, he was drifting off, overwhelmed by the warm sensation spread generously throughout his body.

Why can't every night be like this? Why can't every night feel so safe?

Because Aizawa felt like he had earned the abuse.

* * *

 **Part two to come in the next few days.**

 **Soul Spirit**


	2. Sound

**A 24-Pack of Band-Aids**

* * *

 **A Boku no Hero Academia oneshot.**

* * *

A sharp kick to his thigh from his friend was all it took to wake up his black-haired counterpart. It was a Saturday, and Aizawa knew he could not avoid it any longer. He had to return to his own bedroom.

Wiggling his way out of his cocoon, he rubbed the throbbing in his thigh lightly. Hizashi had twisted himself halfway onto his stomach, leaving his legs sprawled and stretched across the bed. Aizawa felt that rationally, payback was warranted.

So he shoved him off the bed.

He landed partially on the wooden floor and abandoned futon with a muffled _thunk_ ; he and his coveted blond hair sprouted up so fast, he nearly caught Aizawa in a snort. Hizashi stared incredulously, wide awake, his mouth hanging open in shock.

"What happened?" He asked, patting his chest to make sure he was still in the same clothes and in the same room as before. Aizawa shrugged and kicked himself free of the blankets.

"I don't know, guess you just fell."

Hizashi groaned and flopped onto his back. "What a dream I guess."

His black-haired friend hummed but said nothing. He slid out of bed, his feet making no sound as he located his socks wadded up in his bag he left by the door. He slipped them on. He could feel the eyes watching him as he put on his school jacket and tossed his bag over his shoulder.

"Shouta…"

Aizawa glanced back at him. He was perched up on his elbows, his hair drooping in his face to match the sad expression in his eyes.

"What…" he asked softly, tightening his grip on his bag.

Hizashi responded at the same volume. "Why don't you stay…? For a few hours... Another day... Forever."

He quirked an eyebrow. "Forever. Really?"

His friend bounced forward onto his butt, leaning over his knees. He looked more desperate now, his face pleading, but Aizawa would not crumble. Not this time.

"I'm sure my mom wouldn't mind it," he said, "And you like staying here, I know you do. We can play all the video games, have my dad's cooking—"

"I can't," Aizawa cut him off. It sounded too good to be nothing more than a fantasy. He didn't belong there with them, encroaching on their family as he felt living in the second-floor apartment, encroaching on a bachelor's life by his very existence. He dug his fingernails into the fabric strap and turned towards the door. "I'll see you Monday."

They didn't exchange anymore after that—Aizawa didn't give time for it, slipping out the door before his friend could even get up. He retrieved his shoes at the front, shoving his feet into them and waiting for his heel to sink into it. He heard Hizashi follow him, but he didn't say a word when his black-haired friend walked out into the warm morning air. His eyes followed him from the window by the door as he pushed open the gate and turned down the street, the bruises on his face looking like smeared putty in the infant sunlight. There were many, many things Hizashi wanted to say. But he swallowed them all painfully.

He didn't want to push his only friend away.

* * *

Aizawa was home in thirty minutes.

He never had money for the train on the weekends, so walking home from his friend's was the only viable option. He didn't mind it though. He worked the stiffness out of his knees, and when he reached the familiar tree standing firm beside his window, he climbed his way to his floor and dropped back onto the ledge.

The suction on the door was tight. Someone must have turned on the air conditioner, whether that was the monster or anyone he brought to the apartment since the front door had become a revolving one.

He retrieved a small metal rod that had fallen from the ledge above him (to what, he didn't know, and didn't really want to know either) and wedged it carefully until he heard the soft hiccup and the door yielded to the bar. He pushed it to the maximum width he would allow and slid his bag inside.

That's when he heard it. The snoring.

His eyes had to adjust to the darkness, but when they did, he saw a man draped on his sheets, his face smushed against the pillow. Aizawa silently cursed himself and tried to slip back outside, but the metal rod tapped the glass and the man resurrected himself from his sleep. Aizawa stayed absolutely still, his hand pressed to the sliding door heavy against his chest, counting his breathing and waiting for something to happen, any reason for his flight or fight instincts to kick in.

The man rolled over, and his snores persisted on.

Aizawa stayed wedged in the doorway, one foot in the dark lion's den, the other in the light, breathing through his nose and trying to get the rapid pattering of his heart to a reasonable level, so, in case the man moved again, he could hear him over the loud heartbeat muting his hearing.

* * *

Aizawa still had his forehead pushed against the seal on the door when he heard a voice, accentuated by a quirk.

"Shouta!"

 _No._

He quickly glanced at the lion curled up on his bed, one fisted wadded in the blankets. He couldn't leave the screen door open.

He couldn't let him hear.

He carefully passed the metal bar in-between the thin space of his legs, tilting it to lean against the privacy screen blocking the neighbor's view. He shuffled out of the space and onto the concrete landing and held his breath as he slid the door shut, pausing hard when he heard the familiar suction.

With his forehead pressed against the door, he could barely discern the darkness, but the glob on his sheets had not moved.

"Shouta!"

He shook his head and leaned over the iron bars, searching for the cockatoo colored hair. He could never judge the distance with his voice quirk—and since he couldn't see him, he could only assume he wasn't as close as he thought he was until he saw him passing the gap in between the buildings, preparing to shout his name again.

Shouta had never jumped on the tree from the ledge. For one, the branch was taller than him, and the iron bars that would serve as his jumping off point were barely as wide as a water bottle cap. He would get enough balance to make the jump, and besides—the end of the branch might snap from the sudden momentum. He had no place to run. He curled his fingers around the bar and held on tightly, hoping he wouldn't get blown away by the nonexistent winds he felt howling around him.

Hizashi spotted him within minutes.

"Shouta!" He called again, quirk still fizzling. Aizawa flinched and checked towards the screen door again. It didn't move.

His friend trotted over quickly, craning his head to look up at him from the ground level.

His black-haired friend hissed, "What are you doing here Hizashi?"

The sun, wobbling towards the center of the sky, hardened his lens and made it impossible to see his eyes. A ray refracted off it and landed like a speck of yellow on the end of Aizawa's shoes.

"Looking for you, of course."

Aizawa sighed. "How did you even find me."

He was afraid to speak too loud. Afraid of waking up the monster. But Hizashi didn't have that same fear. He didn't know. He spoke so loudly his friend still thought he was using his quirk.

"I guess. Shouta, we have to talk. About all this, please! Someone is hurting you, and I want to help!"

His black hair shot up, and his eyes went red, and he ran a finger over his throat threateningly. His friend took a step back.

"There's nothing to talk about," he said. "So go home."

He assumed that was it. His hair flopped back in his face, and he turned back towards the sliding door. He would talk again to his friend on Monday. For now, he would have to wait for the lion to crawl out of his room. He slid to the ground, pressing his back against the bars.

He heard a branch snap.

He moved to his knees, staring through the slats in the metal fence. Hizashi had grabbed onto a branch and yanked it off into his hands. He was trying to climb the tree.

It was one of the few times Aizawa would ever admit he screamed.

"Hizashi! Leave me alone!"

His friend froze, his hand full of leaves. Their eyes never met as he lowered his head towards the ground. They never truly disagreed about anything but this, and he knew it. But Aizawa wanted to go through this alone. He didn't want to drag someone into this, an outsider who wouldn't understand nor deserved to be subjected to it.

The sliding door opened. Aizawa felt his heart stop beating.

Hizashi didn't hear it, he didn't know. He turned on his heels and started to walk away, his shoulders slumped, those words still ringing in his ears. Never has Aizawa wanted to contradict himself more as he clutched the metal bars of his prison tightly, watching his best friend walk off.

 _"_ _I remember you said don't leave me here alone."_

A hand rested on his shoulder. He bit his lip hard and shut his eyes.

 _"But all that's dead and gone and passed tonight."_

The logic in his brain told him this was what he deserved. He was the one who pushed his friend away. If he wanted anything to change, he would have to rebuild the bridges he burned, swallow his damn pride and hope tomorrow would be different.

But right now, he couldn't think about tomorrow. He could only think about today.

* * *

They lived on another year with the abuse, and the rift Aizawa predicted was growing between them suddenly evaporated in one afternoon. Hizashi waited until the day before their second year at UA to confess that he liked his best friend—or loved, he couldn't tell, through all the stuttering and handwaving. Aizawa hid a smile behind his scarf and didn't say anything until the end of the day, so he could watch his friend turn cherry red every time he looked his way.

Hizashi waited until the day of the Sports Festival to kiss him. It had caught him off guard—he was only describing the various ways he could die depending on how sadistic the referees planned on getting when the blond suddenly seized him by his face and kissed him. He spent the rest of the day apologizing, and his friend never let on that he liked it until he suddenly captured him by his tie after the event was over and returned the favor. Hizashi's eyes soon turned to hearts after that.

They both waited until one month shy of the end of the school year to try something different. They had discussed it for months, Hizashi always prompting for validity and asking him if it was truly okay, to which Aizawa would sigh and say of course. They picked a date, when Hizashi's folks would be out of town, and quietly his black-haired friend followed him home from the train station, their pinkies looped together.

They talked very little about the day Aizawa yelled at him from his balcony. Hizashi found the uncrossable line and respectfully kept his distance from it—but still, his heart ached when he glanced over at his friend-turned-boyfriend, wondering how much has happened in the silence of the past year.

Hizashi's house was as empty as he predicted—but still, they preemptively locked all the necessary doors, just in case. They would start with a movie in Hizashi's room, sitting on his bed with Aizawa's head on his shoulder as neither one of them paid attention to whatever the blonds nervous finger pressed.

And then it became more. Aizawa tilted his head up to look up into his boyfriend's eyes—he had forced him to take off his glasses—when his lips were met by a tender kiss. One lapsed into another, and soon, Aizawa was carefully looping his arms around his neck and twisting his body to better accommodate the position.

He felt like he was breathing when his body was not, every time he reached for the sweet nectar and felt the tender love that came with it. Hizashi carefully combed his bangs from his eyes. He kissed him again, and Aizawa's heart fluttered. He was afraid to admit it, but he was in love.

The movie credits rolled, and adolescent hands started to wander elsewhere. Hizashi paused smothering his face with kisses so he could flip on some music while Aizawa's nervous fingers fumbled to slip buttons from their holes.

This was crazy, ridiculous even—but somehow it felt right as Hizashi gently took his hands and helped him open his button-up shirts.

The momentum stopped.

Hizashi stared at him, wide-eyed as a piano thundered in the background. And Aizawa descended from his happy place and wrapped his shirt over his skin to hide the scars and the bruises he had long since stopped counting.

"Shouta…" Hizashi's voice wavered, and he reached up to cup his face, but he pushed his hand away and started to rebutton his shirt. "Please, Shouta…"

"I don't want to do this anymore," he said suddenly. He didn't really feel it in his heart, but he was frustrated, and the damn button still wasn't cooperating. It took a little force for Hizashi to pry his hand away.

"Shouta, please, listen to me," he said, squeezing his hand softly.

His boyfriend sighed and glanced at him. Hizashi lifted his palm and kissed it lightly, his lips brushing a scar he had gotten during training, and they both knew what he was going to say before he even said it. The music in the background crescendoed into silence.

"I think you're beautiful, in every way." Aizawa averted his eyes, but he gently nudged his head, and he turned and returned his gaze, as uncomfortable as it made him feel. "Scars and stuff, that doesn't change it. I love you just the way you are."

Aizawa paused. Love. It was the first time he had said that to him (that he could be sure of anyway.)

"But I don't like the idea of someone hurting you, laying their hands on you and leaving those scars and bruises…" Hizashi carefully tucked a piece of hair behind his ear, catching the faint powder of a blush on his cheeks. "I want to protect you... Keep you safe… Please, let me do that for you."

A guitar radiated in the silence between them, and Aizawa, in his half-buttoned shirt and his boyfriend cradling his hand to his heart, realized how truly profound the melody was.

" _I remember tears streaming down your face when I said I'll never let you go. When all those shadows almost killed your light."_

He studied Hizashi's eyes quietly. He saw the music in his face, in his eyes. He felt it in his warmth, and for a moment, the words quivered on the tip of his tongue.

 _"I remember you said don't leave me here alone. But all that's dead and gone and passed tonight…"_

He remembered the day under the tree, falling asleep to the melody. Of all the times Hizashi chased him to his house and forced him to go to all the events he didn't care for but only went because his only friend asked him too. He thought about the day he screamed from his balcony—and before he could close in on himself, to shut the door his boyfriend had finally pried open, Hizashi grabbed his other hand and started to sing in tune with the lyrics.

"Just close your eyes, the sun is going down,"he echoed, his voice always beautiful and in tune and whispering "please trust me" in his ears.

"You'll be alright, no one can hurt you now." _Let me protect you Shouta._

Hizashi pressed his forehead to his, and he knew he would break, that any resolve he had formed would crumble.

He loved him.

"Come morning light, you and I'll be safe and sound…" _Stay with me._

He felt like he was drowning; he sucked in a hard breath, squeezed his eyes shut, and whispered, hoping that he wouldn't sink too far before he was saved. His boyfriend quickly clicked the music off.

"What was that Shouta…?" He asked softly. And Aizawa opened his eyes and stared deep into his. Hizashi squeezed the frozen fingertips again, and quietly, he repeated what he said.

"Soon…"

It was enough. Hizashi wrapped him up in his arms, and he absorbed all the warmth his body craved to have. Maybe part of him was lying, for the sake of keeping Hizashi satisfied—but the other part of him knew it wasn't true. He would do something about his situation soon.

It was only rational to take his life, this life he has constructed with Yamada Hizashi tightly woven in it, into his own hands.

Time to end the abuse.

* * *

Abuse

 _verb_

əˈbyo͞oz/

treat (a person or an animal) with cruelty or violence, especially regularly or repeatedly.

"riders who abuse their horses should be prosecuted"

 _Synonyms:_ mistreat, harm, damage.

Aizawa's eyes wavered over the definitions he wrote his first year before he quickly shoved the stack of papers in his bag. He didn't have much in terms of possessions, but now hastily recollecting him was driving him down a memory lane he didn't have the time for. He checked the door again. Closed. He had fixed the door as much as he could since the night it was destroyed, but still he wondered if it would give way easily to the man on the other side.

He hoisted the gym bag over his shoulder and crammed it through the small opening, following closely behind it. Hizashi was waiting on the ground, hands outstretched, and he tossed the bag over the metal slats into his arms.

Aizawa Shouta was seventeen, and he was running away from home.

Hizashi balanced the bag on the stack of others. Most of it was clothes or school supplies, things he couldn't rationalize forcing Hizashi's family to buy if he already owned it. Very little remained in the room, but he knew they couldn't make one trip with all the bags.

"Take some to your house," Aizawa spoke softly, nodding towards the small pyramid of his life. Hizashi gave him a quick thumb up and picked up two of the bags and hurried back down the familiar path. If he took the train, it probably would be another ten minutes before he saw him again.

It was finally happening. He was escaping. He treaded carefully back to the doorway and slid in. He was taller now, his shoulders bumping unscuffed places on the white trim. It wouldn't be much longer before he finally hit his remaining growth spurt and become unable to get through the doorway without cracking it open further. Timing was everything, he supposed.

He collected the last remaining uniforms from his closet, folding them up and stuffing them in a bag on loan from Hizashi. Empty hangers clanged solemnly against each other as he eased the closet door shut again. There was something to be said about that moment, but he didn't have the time.

All that remained now was his scarf, bundled up on his bed. It was soft when his fingers wove into, and he carefully stuffed it with the rest of his possessions.

This was it. There was nothing left. He nudged the bag out the door with his foot.

"You bastard!"

He forced himself through the sliding door when the door to his room erupted, smashing so hard against the wall he was sure the handle was stuck inside the wall. He had been so quiet, he didn't know how he would have noticed him—he could basically see the alcohol dripping from his mouth, he was drunk, he was in a rage, and he was looking for something to beat on.

It wouldn't be him.

He smashed his shoulder into the sliding door and forced it shut before he chunked his bag off the side. The privacy walls were too tall to scale, even at his height, and he could hear his fingers scratching the finger holds to open the door again.

"You son of a bitch, you get back here!" He screamed.

Aizawa didn't want to look at him, to see his face and see himself contained in the genetics. He gripped the iron bars of the railing tightly and lifted himself onto it, standing to his full height. His head was at level with the branch. The lion pried the sliding door open, and it screeched like gunshots in his ears when he pushed against his heels and jumped.

He didn't know if a two-story fall would hurt, if he would break his legs and be dragged back inside his cage. No, he wouldn't, he refused to accept this fate any longer—

His fingers snagged the branch.

He quickly looped his arms around it and kicked up his legs, but even then, hanging upside down and looking at the man genetically cursed to be his father panting with the pent-up rage of an alcoholic, he heard the branch crackle.

He scrambled to get right side up and crawl to the end of the branch as it cracked and popped, the angle of it from the sky rapidly increasing. His leg slipped off, and he tried to brace against other branches as his one and only bridge collapsed, barely clinging to the tree with a thin piece of bark that caused it to waver in the wind.

He inhaled hard. He was lucky. He's always just been lucky.

"So what now, bastard?" It was the first time the lion had ever tried to have a conversation. If he could feel his limbs, he would just leave—but adrenaline seeped into numbness, and he realized with a swallow that there was terror after jumping from his balcony. His limbs were like the branches, broken and barely clinging to the commands of his mind. In the face of his greatest villain, he could not move; and he felt ashamed to say he wanted to be a hero.

"You just going to go back to UA? You? A hero? Don't make me laugh."

He knew exactly what was on his mind, and he hated it. He grasped the branches around him tightly, feeling the limbs beneath him waver from his weight and hoping that Hizashi would come back soon.

Only he knew this time, Hizashi would not save him. He would have to save him himself.

The man leaned against the railing, his face dissolving into a lopsided, drunken grin.

"You'd be useless as a fighter. You're too scrawny. No potential." His face dropped, and he scratched his nose. "Not to mention that worthless bastard quirk."

 _Fight back._ A small voice said, and he stood more firm on shaky ground, looking at the man with his dark black eyes, seeing only the reflection of his own soul. Emotional ineptitude. A habit of sleeping anywhere at any time. Containing problems in small bottles.

But Aizawa was _not_ his father.

He was a hero. He didn't hate kids. And he could feel warmth and love and power from another individual and not a bottle of alcohol.

"If you hate your quirk so much…" Aizawa said, the hair raising from the back of his neck, red washing out the genetic color from his eyes. "Then you only have yourself to blame for bad genetics."

He waved meat in front of the beast until he provoked it. The sudden calm was followed by the raging storm.

There wasn't much on the balcony. Broken pottery, the metal rod; but all of it became baseballs as he picked them up and chunked them at him. Aizawa's hair dropped as quickly as he did and feeling returned to his limbs. He slipped down to the next level on the tree, the branches scratching and tearing his face. He heard the metal rod clang above him and he quickly slid down further on the tree, his hands gripping the bark so hard he could feel it bleeding.

When the crashes went silent, he could only assume he was heading for the staircase to take him outside. He jumped the last yard, rolling to avoid hurting himself before he scooped up his last remaining bags and took off running.

He didn't turn around. He didn't want to see him again, whether he was following him or not, and he didn't give him a chance to catch up either. He crashed into Hizashi at the entrance to the train station, panting hard and feeling like he had just fought a thousand villains at once.

"Shouta?" Hizashi caught him by the shoulder when he tried to dive down the stairs. "Shouta what happened?"

Aizawa checked over his shoulder. Only the regular traffic browsed around them. No lion. No man who had lost all the humanity inside himself. He let his bags slip from his shoulder, and he slowly sank to his knees. It was over. It was finally over.

"Nothing…" He breathed out, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment and feeling a throb in the palms of his hands. And then he opened them and looked at his boyfriend, who looked startled and scared and relieved to see him all at once. "Let's just… go home…"

Aizawa Shouta wouldn't be defined by the abuse. He would rewrite his own defintions, of the terms attributed to his life and who he was, and it would be nowhere on the list.

* * *

Hizashi never asked him about his home life. Not when their two years of being together turned into ten, not when they moved into their own place together or started working together at UA while occasionally teaming up on the side. They were pros now, with teaching jobs and long nights of sleeping curled up next to each other. The only negative thing was the way Hizashi decided to wear his hair up as Present Mic, but Aizawa decided he would let it happen as long as he got to wipe out all the hair gel and make him whine and cry that his hair was messed up.

Life was okay. Aizawa napped when he wanted and sucked down juice pouches like mana as his boyfriend watched from afar, his face wrinkled in disgust.

"Shouta," He spoke, after a particularly loud slurp. "Are you five?"

Aizawa looked him dead in the eye, sucking down another mouthful of his juice before he said. "Only in my heart."

Hizashi snorted, caught off-guard, and grinned him. "Really?"

"Really."  
The blond's laughter dissolved beneath the growing concord of slurps, his black-haired boyfriend doing it now just to annoy the hell out of him. It was working, because now he couldn't focus on anything other than payback. He set his pen down over the papers he was grading and pulled out his phone, grinning wickedly at him before he clicked on the loudest music he owned. An electric guitar blared through the phone, and Aizawa covered his ears, flicking the cap of the juice pouch to the side of his mouth in order to speak.

"Turn that damn thing off Hizashi!" He warned, but his boyfriend wouldn't listen, pretending to use his phone as a guitar to strum to the beat while he used his quirk to match the _screaming_ of the main vocalist.

Aizawa activated his quirk and grabbed a handful of his scarf. Hizashi went quiet with a yelp as the scarf wrapped around his mouth and his hands and forced him to drop the stupid phone on the floor. Even with a muffled voice, he could hear him whining "Shoutaaaa."

"Next time, I kill you. Got it?" Hizashi nodded quickly, and he released him, letting his hair relax back in place.

His boyfriend was still grinning like an idiot as he scooped up his phone, and he stared at him suspiciously as he selected another song and placed the phone on the table. A guitar.

"Hey… Shouta…" He said, his smile unwavering as he looked fondly at the name on the screen. "Do you remember this..?"

 _"_ _I remember tears streaming down your face when I said I'll never let you go."_

Ten years. It had been ten years since he had heard this song, and it took him back instantly, to the tree outside of UA where they spent so many days together.

"You still have that?" He mumbled, leaning back on the couch.

"Of course my listener!" He bobbed his head to the music, humming under his breath as to not annoy him again. They both listened as the guitar strummed on, his heart echoing the final words.

 _"Come morning light, you and I'll be safe and sound…"_

But the guitar kept playing. He flashed a look at Hizashi, who quirked an eyebrow and asked "what?"

Aizawa shrugged. "I didn't know there was more to the song."

"Of course there was. You just were never awake long enough to hear it!"

 _"Don't you dare look out your window, darling everything's on fire. The war outside our door keeps raging on."_

His black-haired boyfriend frowned. Well, doesn't that sound wonderful? It reminded him of their hero work, a work that would never end when people became so easily corrupted.

 _"_ _Hold onto this lullaby even when the music's gone, gone…"_

Aizawa snorted, "This is depressing."

Hizashi smiled softly at him, tapping his pen now to match the melody.

 _"Just close your eyes, the sun is going down. You'll be alright, no one can hurt you now…"_

"Or hopeful," he said suddenly, "Depending on what part you listen to."

 _"Come morning light, you and I'll be safe and sound…"_

And Aizawa chuckled; Hizashi always understood the music better than he did, but it was the language they spoke between each other, the voice they had given for a little thing called love.

love

 _Noun_

ləv/

an intense feeling of deep affection.

"babies fill parents with intense feelings of love"

 _synonyms:_

Devotion, tenderness, warmth

Aizawa said softly, "I guess you might be right. It's not a bad song."

* * *

 **This is my 100** **th** **fanfic posted on this site. I wanted to do something special, so I hope I delivered. Thanks to Saru for once again being my Present Mic interpreter.**

 **Thanks for reading.**

 **Soul Spirit**


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